Curiosity Killed The Cat
by QuikkSilver
Summary: Ariadne Clemmons is writing a book about the criminally insane. Who better than to interview than Hannibal Lecter? But as she delves deeper into the hell of her own mind, they both discover their futures - and pasts - are linked.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Curiosity Killed The Cat

**Rating: **T - For Language, Scenes of Violence, Themes of a Sexual Nature, and Eventual Romance. **Rating Will Go Up In The Sequel.**

**Author: **QuikkSilver

**Chapter: **One

**Reviews: **None. All Reviewers Shall Be Thanks At The End Of Each Chapter.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER ONE: VERY INTERESTING INDEED<strong>

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><p>She sat quite calmly in front of him, her neat blonde hair brushed back and her small fingers tapping restlessly on her bulky backpack. Her moving fingers were the only sign of her impatience – indeed, the rest of her was a picture of serenity and unshakeable peace. He closed the door softly behind him, the doorjamb clicking, and went around his desk, noting her appearance as he did so. She was small, with slender wrists and a sleek, coiffed pageboy style haircut. She wore khakis, sensible low-heeled shoes, and a gray vest over her white dress shirt. Everything about her was well put together, as though she were a small porcelain statuette which had been crafted by experts. A pair of simple, innocent brown eyes followed him behind his desk, and he offered his hand. "Doctor Dennings, I presume?" She said, and something about her voice was slightly off-kilter, a little fluttering near the edges of her words. "I'm Ariadne Clemmons, the writer who contacted you last night." She sounded hopeful, excited even, and Dennings realized this was her first time in a high-security ward for the criminally insane. It still had a ting of novelty for her.<p>

Dr. Dennings was a slightly stooped, older man, with chestnut colored hair which was graying at the temples. Glasses with thick frames were settled on the bridge of his nose, and he wore a slightly overused lab coat and squeaky-soled shoes. His face had several lines, but his eyes were young, and she got he impression he was a young man who had aged too quickly. The crows feet deepened around his eyes as he looked at her, something cool and evaluating in his green eyes. His mouth twisted slightly, just a twitch of his lips, as if he didn't much like what he saw.

"Yes, I remember," He said, and smiled a little. "I read some of your articles – they're quite impressive. You're a very talented writer, Miss Clemmons, but I'm afraid you might be a bit over your head here." He informed her, and his eyes roamed over her fragile, petite body. Her blonde eyebrows raised, and she tilted her head to one side.

"I'm not sure I understand. I can assure you I know how to conduct my interviews with inmates so they're not upsetting. I have some excellent credentials, a few very good recommendations –" She said, but was cut off in the middle of her argument.

"I'm sure your credentials and prowess concerning the criminally insane are exemplary, Miss Clemmons, but the patient you wish to interview is not someone who is safe to approach. He's a complete monster, a man who will stop at nothing to destroy and devour." A strange little smile quirked the sides of Dr. Dennings's lips. "He's a complete psychopath, Miss Clemmons, and you understand how rare it is to have one alive and fully functional."

"I know," She said, perhaps a trifle too eagerly, and Dr. Dennings saw just how excited she was. "I'm writing a book – I may have mentioned that when we were on the phone – and I need to study them for my research. I'm extremely fascinated, Doctor, and you were the only person who would listen to my request."

He looked at her and sighed slightly, expelling a breath through his nostrils. Had it been any louder or longer it would have been titled a snort. "Very well, Miss Clemmons. Come with me." He stood abruptly, and she gathered her large, bulky backpack and hefted it awkwardly onto one shoulder. She followed him quickly, and he arched an eyebrow at her bright expression. She truly was fascinated, the naïve little thing. "There are a few rules concerning Dr. Lecter," He began as they filed down a narrow hallway full of bustling attendants in crisp white uniforms. "Do not approach the bars – I can't stress this enough. Do not approach it under any circumstances, and do not accept anything he gives you. Also, anything you pass him cannot be anything sharp – no pens, pencils, paper clips, nothing. Got that?"

"Yes, sir," She said, and the two of them descended several steps, her low-heeled shoes clicking slightly on the dampening floors. "I can assure you, I just want to talk to him. Nothing more." She hesitated for a beat, and then looked up at him from beneath a sheaf of her blonde hair. "Will he talk to me, Doctor? I mean, is he responsive?"

"Believe me, he will want to talk to you," Dr. Dennings said tiredly. "A bit too responsive, sometimes. He's quite clever, Miss Clemmons, and he will do anything he can to get inside your head. He will want to know everything about you, and if you don't tell him, he'll find it out anyway – the way you move, the way you speak, the way you ask questions. He's very cunning, Miss Clemmons, and that's what makes him very, very dangerous."

This did nothing to cause apprehension – if anything, she seemed even more excited. "That's exactly what I'm looking for, sir, thank you so much," Ariadne said with a smile. "I'll send you a copy of my book when it's finished, all right? It shouldn't be too long, I've already laid out quite a bit of groundwork. Now I just need some proof to back up my arguments." She seemed so pleased, the stupid little idiot, Dr. Dennings thought to himself.

He gave a slightly forced grin. "You do that, Miss Clemmons. Jack will go over a few more rules with you, and he'll be watching you on camera. If you ever need help, feel uncomfortable, or anything, just look in the left hand corner of the corridor. Jack will be watching, and he'll come in if you need anything." He said, and then straightened his ugly tie. "Now, please try to be careful, Miss Clemmons," He finished, and opened the final door for her.

There was a small antechamber in front of her, windowless, with two chairs against the wall. A small booth, surrounded by glass, was in the center, and there was a sturdy iron door to the right of the booth. Inside the small chamber, there were quite a number of switches and dials, along with a few blinking lights and several TV screens to watch the multiple camera angles with. Seated in the center, spinning slowly on his swivel chair, was a burly redheaded man, with wide shoulders and a blocky build. A nightstick dangled from his hip, along with several bunches of keys, and he had a simple, honest look about him. "Excuse me," Ariadne said, approaching the opening in the booth slowly and tapping on the glass. She held up her small plastic tag which said _Journalist_. "I'm Ariadne Clemmons? The writer?"

"Oh, yeah, shit," Jack said, and then waved her forward. "I'm Jack. Can I see your ID, please?" He said. She flashed a quick smile, and then let her bag down with a thump. After some fumbling in her pocket, she withdrew a chunky man's wallet and pulled out a small plastic rectangle, sliding it under the glass. Jack picked it up with his thick fingers and studied it for a moment. The photo on the ID matched her almost exactly, save her hair had been a bit longer, and he waved her through. "Come on in," He said, and pressed a button. There was a harsh klaxon noise, and the iron door opened with a buzzing sound. Ariadne entered, lugging her backpack behind her.

"Dr. Dennings said you had a few more rules for me?" She said, seeming a little antsy to get to the next room. Jack smiled at her and held up a hand.

"Yeah, I do: don't do anything stupid. Use your brains, you'll be fine." Jack said, and smiled. "You'll be great – just don't get sucked into his little head games. Tune 'em right out, it's how I handle him."

"He's perfect," Ariadne said, and Jack raised his brows. "I mean, for my research," She stuttered, and blushed. "Dr. Dennings was the only person who actually listened to me. Every other institute hung up once they heard I was writing a book, and that I was a woman."

"Well, that's how it goes," Jack said, and clapped her on the shoulder. "You'll do great, kid. Just be careful. I'll be watching –" Here he pointed to the TV screens, " – so don't worry. Okay? Okay." He went back inside the booth and pressed a different button, and the door closed behind her. She felt her insides quivering with anticipation, and she began her slow walk down the corridor.

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><p>He watched her approach, still seated on his bed in the corner, hidden in shadow. He was one of three patients on this block, three patients who were deemed "functioning psychopaths". A cold smile lifted the corner of his mouth when he saw her stop in front of his cell, well out of harm's way, and his quick blue eyes scanned her with a ferocity and intensity which would have made any normal person shy back. She did rear back a marginal amount, her left foot tracing a dainty path behind her leg so she could stand with her legs crossed, and he smiled wolfishly to himself. She was neat, small, a delicate bird ready to be crushed, and he waited quite calmly for her to speak. The behemoth of a bag on her shoulder was allowed to fall to the ground with a loud <em>thump<em>. "Doctor Lecter?" She called out, her hazel eyes straining to see the shadowy figure in the corner. "Doctor Lecter, can you hear me?"

She wasn't frightened. That meant she was either stupid or as crazy as Jakes in the next cell, and this interested him. He had no view in this room – nothing except a few sketches taped to the walls, a few drawings he had made with the stub of a pencil they allowed him. "I can hear you quite well," He said back, and she shivered at the metallic, almost sing-song voice, accented slightly with an unidentifiable twist to his words. "And who do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

_He's so civil_, she thought, and dropped to her knees to find a notepad and pencil in which to write down her notes. "I'm Ariadne Clemmons, Doctor Lecter, a journalist. Could I have a few minutes and ask you a couple of questions?" She asked, scribbling down several notes in shorthand. His queer blue eyes flicked over her body from head to toe, from her carefully combed blonde hair to her ironed ankle socks. She was writing with her left hand, but she stood with her body weight on her left side, indicating she had been a right hander but switched.

"And what answer should I give you, Miss Clemmons?" He said, his drawling voice sending chills down her neck and causing goose-bumps to rise up under her shirtsleeves. "Should I answer your questions proudly, because I am a confirmed psychopath who is indeed quite fond of displaying his trophies, or should I pretend to be a meek lamb who is remorseful and ready to rejoin society? You must let me know the rules of the game we are playing, Miss Clemmons, otherwise I'm apt to cheat."

"You could answer honestly," She said, and for the first time since her arrival, he moved. He got up, and she saw he was a stocky, muscular man with a wiry, furtive strength about him. He had to be strong, to do what he did, and Ariadne felt the excitement in her belly diminish somewhat, replaced with a sour tang of fear. He approached the bats on the front of his cell, gripping them tightly in his hands, and looked at her, a smirk lifting the corners of his mouth.

"But we all know I'm mad, therefore incapable of giving an honest answer." He purred, and Ariadne looked up at him, tilting her head to one side.

"Give me an answer that you believe is true, then," Ariadne suggested, and a little spark of approval lit his cold blue eyes.

"Well done," He said silkily. "You employed one of the many tricks of the trade, trying to get into my head...Well done, I say. Kudos. But you don't want to be in my head, Miss Clemmons," He said, and his grip on the bars tightened. Ariadne felt the coiling tang of fear in her gut grow larger and fill her mouth. "My mind is a place which nobody has entered and come out sane, Miss Clemmons. It's not a place for good little girls like you." He cocked his head to one side, in a mocking imitation of her earlier action. "Because that's what you are, isn't it? A good little girl, trying so hard to be perfect in every way, pleasing everyone right and left...How does it feel to keep your emotions bottled up, Miss Clemmons? Do you feel madness creeping in on you while you wash the dishes, sweep your floors? Do you wish you could kick and punch and _scream_, but the confines of your rearing has shackled you to _good behavior_?"

He was getting to her, he could tell, but she merely took down a note and kept her eyes focused firmly on the page. "You're a clever man, Doctor Lecter, but this interview isn't about me. I'm writing a book, Doctor Lecter, about the intricacies of criminal minds, and I was hoping you can give me some insight." Her words were measured, careful, and concise. Not betraying too much emotion. She had done this many times, he observed, and his canine smirk slid over his mouth again. She was tamping down her emotions again. It would be fun, he decided, to pick apart her beautiful wrapping and watch her shed her _good behavior_ like a snake sheds its skin. All she needed was a little push.

"And what do I get out of this arrangement, Miss Clemmons?" He asked, still at the front of his cage. She looked up, and he saw a flicker of indecision on her face.

"You get the public recognition, of course, and I doubt money would be of any use to you here," She said softly, the words bordering on a question, following the line of her tone as it sloped upwards. "I can't give you anything else, Doctor Lecter."

"Oh, of course you can," He said, his metallic growl settling along his words again. "Quid quo pro, Miss Clemmons. For every question you ask me, I ask you another. We shall both attempt to get inside each other's minds, see what makes them tick..." He sneered. "Although I can say you wear your emotions out on your sleeve, Miss Clemmons."

She jumped then, and he knew more from that flinch than anything else she had told him silently. She prided herself on the ability to keep her mask in place, to keep herself under a sheet of calm indifference. And those hazel eyes were questioning for a split second, wondering why he could take her apart so easily, open her like a rose blooming. "I can't make any promises like that, Doctor Lecter," She said. "If you wish to help, that's fine. But I can't –"

"Come now, don't be childish," He said condescendingly. "I have enough recognition without your stupid book, Miss Clemmons. And you cannot write a book about fantastic criminals without including myself, can you?" Those blue eyes laughed at her, and she felt small and stupid again, as though she were an infant. "No, I would be the _piece de resistance – _Your crowning jewel, if you will. We shall both benefit from this exchange."

She stood, sliding her pencil back into her pocket and stuffing her notepad – containing at least six pages of hastily scribbled shorthand – into her bag. She shrugged the bag back onto her shoulder, and the white line of her throat jumped out as she shouldered her burden. As she struggled with it, for a heartbeat her throat was exposed, and he saw it was clean, white flesh. He smiled in cold appreciation. "I'll think about it," She told him. "Thank you for your time, Doctor Lecter. I'll be in contact with you by the weekend." She said, and began walking towards the door.

"No hurry," He called after her. "One moment, though," He said, and she paused, turning back to him. Those artic blue eyes were dancing at her, alive with cruel light. "Why did you change your dominant hand, Miss Clemmons? It interests me greatly. You were born right handed, and yet you write with the left."

There was a long silence, and then she said, "My mother was a leftie. I suppose I take after her."

As the thick door boomed shut behind her, Hannibal Lecter stayed motionless, staring at the floor. His white teeth – pointed and sharp, even in the darkness – were bared slightly. "Very interesting," He whispered to himself. "Very interesting indeed, Miss Clemmons."

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><p><em>I realize Hannibal is slightly OOC, I'm hoping to fix that. Please, just give this story a chance and tell me what you think.<em>

_All Reviewers Shall Be Publically Thanked. Please Give Your Honest Opinion. I Value Your Feedback Greatly._


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **Curiosity Killed The Cat

**Rating: **T – For Language, Scenes of Violence, Themes of a Sexual Nature, and Eventual Romance. **Rating Will Go Up In Sequel.**

**Author: **QuikkSilver

**Chapter: **Two.

**Reviews: **One. **All Reviews Shall Be Publically Thanked At The End Of Each Chapter.**

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><p><strong>CHAPTER TWO: THE BEGINNING OF EXCHANGES<strong>

He knew she would come back. She had too much to lose by not seeing him again, not interviewing him, and he knew that. He lay stretched on his cot, his hands clasped behind his head, blue eyes closed, listening to her footsteps come down the hall. The only person who had visited him in the two years he had been here was the curious woman, Ariadne Clemmons, and she was the only person here who actually wore heels. He would have preferred to see her in a stiletto, something that gave her a nice angle to her leg and enhanced her femininity, but she was wearing short heels again. Shoes that were comfortable enough to be worn all day, but nice enough to make her appear as though she were dressing up. She was a precise woman, he knew that the instant he saw her; precise bordering on obsessive. He was surgical in his attire, but even if he had access to an iron, he wouldn't use it to iron his socks. It took a special kind of person to spend that much time ironing articles of clothing which would almost never be seen. Appearances were important to her. Oh, she was going to be _delicious_ to unravel. A gift, all wrapped up in silky blonde hair and inquisitive hazel eyes. And he would love unwrapping this gift.

"Doctor Lecter?" She asked, her cultured voice containing a barely perceptible flutter near the vowels. A shake in her unaccented voice – something slightly New Yorker about it. He almost smiled. Ah, yes, delicious indeed. "Doctor Lecter, I've been thinking about your proposal, and I'm inclined to agree, although I do have one or two stipulations." She said firmly, sounding a little more sure of herself than a moment ago.

He tsk'ed at her, drawing the air between his teeth and tongue. "Such long words for a little girl," He informed her, sounding mildly bored and disinterested. "Tell me, Miss Clemmons, do you always give such attention to detail? It's quite obvious you've been stewing over these very words for the past three days, and I can't help but notice those phrases sound badly rehearsed."

She drew her bottom lip into her mouth and tried to calm herself. It irritated and unsettled her that he was able to read her so easily, and she was determined to shake him up a little. "My conditions for this series of interviews is this: One, you must answer every question honestly. Two, our interviews will be conducted on a weekly basis for six weeks, which should give me more than enough information for my book. Three, I am not here to play games, Doctor Lecter. So our "exchanges", as you call them, will be of equal value to the information you give me."

"I expected nothing less," He murmured, and she saw his chest rise and fall slowly. He was morbidly calm. Perhaps they had him drugged. "Very well. You may begin your questioning, clumsy though it will be."

There was the shuffling rasp of papers drawing against each other, and then her pencil scraped across her page a few times. "Doctor Lecter, do you mind if I record our sessions? It will be a big help when I'm trying to reconstruct this when I get home." She was doing it the right way, he decided, just the right amount of flattery and coaxing in her voice.

"Naturally," He responded quietly, finally opening his eyes. He sat up and swung his legs from his cot with alarming abruptness, and she found herself looking away from his cold, bright blue eyes. "Are you ready, Miss Clemmons?" He asked, with a credible imitation of politeness. She heard the layer of smugness beneath his tone, however, and gritted her teeth slightly. This was one of the worst parts of her job – catering to the insane, their weird whims, odd idiosyncrasies, bizarre behavior. He watched her silently as she unzipped her backpack, withdrawing a bulky black box which had several wires sticking out at odd angles. She adjusted a knob, and then pressed a small red button.

"Very well, Doctor Lecter. Can you tell me your earliest memory?" She asked, her voice unconsciously dropping into a lower register in an effort to make herself sound more professional on tape. He noticed this, and smirked. Resuming his previous position on the cot, he crossed his fists behind his head and stared at the concrete ceiling.

"Certainly. I was one or two years old, not quite sure which, and I distinctly remember seeing my reflection in the polished silver in my mother's cabinet. I was wearing red overalls and a yellow shirt – and no, I didn't feel any cannibalistic emotions stemming from that incident, Miss Clemmons." He said, his voice condescending and disdainful. "Your turn, Miss Clemmons." He told her softly, and he heard the increased scratching of her pencil against the paper. She was nervous – perfect. "What do you like least about yourself?"

"Emotionally, physically...?" She queried.

"Both."

"My looks." She answered. _Scratch, scratch, scratch,_ went her pencil.

"Be specific, please."

"I'm too short. Too delicate. I wish I was a little stronger, maybe. And I wish I wasn't blonde." She responded. Her sentences were tight, clipped, measured and careful. She wasn't taking any chances. Excellent. It wouldn't be any fun if she did.

"So you wish you were more masculine?" He asked.

"I'm sorry, is that another question?" She bit back, and he felt satisfaction trickle down his spine. She was quick. He was liking this game more and more. "Because if it is, then I'll have to ask another one of my own."

"Indeed. That's the way the game is played, is it not?" Hannibal answered, and he heard the empty hiss of the tape recorder in the silence.

"You think this is a game, Doctor Lecter?" She snapped, her quick temper rising to the bait.

"I'm sorry, is that your question?" He mocked. "Quite a poor one, if I may say so." He paused, waiting for her to respond. When he looked over, she was writing, determined not to look at him. "And yes, I do see this as a game. It's intriguing me. Games are supposed to stimulate the senses, and your pathetic little questions are doing a remarkable job of not doing that. So I entertain myself in other ways – namely, wondering why a woman bordering on obsessive-compulsive tendencies has such atrocious handwriting."

"Doctor Lecter, your first victim, Nancy Beaumont, why did you kill her?" Her voice was solid now, irritation melted beneath a layer of businesslike indifference.

"Come now, we were just getting somewhere," He said, and then sat up in bed again, piercing her with those bright, laughing blue eyes, so blue and cold they were almost frozen. "I was hungry, I suppose," He said, after a long pause of pretend thoughtfulness. She looked up at him, those gold-flecked hazel eyes interested.

"So you saw it as a strictly primal instinct?" She asked, and he saw she had a reign over her temper once more. _Interesting. She's learning how to play the game. _

"Not at first," He said, and then grinned. "But my question first, Miss Clemmons. Which of your parents do you prefer, your mother or your father?"

She looked at him for the first time, met his eyes fully, and he saw she was tired. Bone-tired. But there was a forced little smile at the corner of her mouth. "My mother. I didn't know my father very well. Now, Doctor Lecter, why did you kill again? Did you develop a taste for it?"

"On the contrary, Miss Clemmons," He said, his blue eyes never leaving her hazel ones. "I found I was quite good at it. And once you discover a previously unknown skill, you want to tap it to it's fullest potential, do you not?" He answered, and he was watching her carefully for any sign of discomfort. Instead, she began writing shorthand again, and nodded twice. "Tell me about your mother, Miss Clemmons." He ordered, and she looked up at him.

"That's not a question." She said, raising her eyebrows.

"How very astute. I want an answer, nonetheless."

She kept her pencil between her fingers, but the tip didn't touch the page as she drew back a draught of memories. The last thing she wanted was to give him what he had asked for – she didn't like talking about her mother. "She was pretty. Very feminine. Very smart. She liked to shop, even though we had a fairly tight budget, and somehow we always managed to find a nice pair of cheap shoes, or a cute necklace on sale. She was thrifty – it was the Irish in her, I think. She was a friend as well as a mother." It was hard to talk about her, even in such a broad scope, but she fought through it despite the difficulties. "Now, Doctor Lecter –"

"That doesn't answer anything," He growled, his voice as metallic and sharp as a knife. "Tell me _about_ your mother, not what you used to do."

There was a long pause, and Ariadne looked up at him. There was a little rift in her eyes, almost hidden beneath the dark circles and golden hazel color. A slight gap in her emotions. A chink in her armor. "She was strong. Stupid, though. Stayed with my father for seven, eight years until I told her to leave. She ... I mean, she loved Daddy. And he loved her. They just had problems, like anyone."

"You don't need to make excuses to me," He purred, tasting the intoxicating flavor of her discomfort and the sweet tang of her bitter memories. "Did your father beat you? Your mother?"

"No, never laid a finger on me," She said, and her voice was a little tighter, the words a little quicker. "He just – couldn't control his temper." She seemed to shake herself all over, like a Labrador ridding water from it's coat, and looked down at her notes. "Doctor Lecter, would you kill again if you were ever released?"

He chuckled. "Excellent catch, Miss Clemmons. Good show, I say. Don't let your emotions run away with you. And you can't expect me to answer that properly, can you? Or are you really as silly as I thought you were?"

"Fine. Did you ever have any friends?" Ariadne asked. He smirked.

"I had many people who _thought_ they were my friend. I never had friends. Only allies."

_Scratch, scratch, scratch._ "Thank you, Doctor," She said, and switched off the tape recorder. He pounced, then, a cougar lashing for it's supper.

"Do you hate your father, Miss Clemmons?"

Silence.

"No. I can't."

"Ah. And would this be because of your good manners, or simply because you still yearn for reconciliation?"

"It's hard to hate someone who doesn't know you." Her words were ice, frozen slush. "He suffers from dementia. On a good day, he sits up and listens to me. Bad days, he throws his food at me and has a convulsion, screaming at me to get out." Liquid nitrogen, now. A Deep-freeze cooler stuffed with popsicles. "Is that everything, Doctor?"

"Not everything," He answered, and stood, his catlike grin still twitching the corners of his mouth. "Not everything, Miss Clemmons, but it shall suffice for now."

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><p>She made it almost all the way to her apartment, which was over ten miles away, before she lost it.<p>

Her memory of fleeing the mental hospital was broken, disjointed – only flashes seared into her brain, blinding her occasionally with their brilliance. She remembered running out, the door slamming behind her, Jack calling after her anxiously, but funnily enough, she didn't remember crying. There had been the hard, jerky stabs of her key jamming into the ignition, the rough, wet cough of her old Chevy, and then the squeal of rubber as she peeled out. And then here, when the tears were scorching her cheeks and the sobs were branding her throat. Here, in her impressive, cold, austere apartment, which wouldn't be available to any normal woman fresh out of graduate school. She had never needed a shot of some strong liquor so badly before, never needed her cigarettes so desperately. Her fingers clawed the bottom of her kitchen drawer, and then remembered she had quit smoking two months ago.

_Damn it all,_ She hissed in her mind. _Damn it all. I went there so confident I could keep all my secrets. But you can't keep any secrets from Hannibal the Cannibal, can you? _She kneaded her eyes with her hands, the choked sobs still ravaging her throat as images of her mother sprang to her mind. Her mother's body, covered with a white sheet from the neck down, lying on a cold steel slab in an autopsy room. The glint of her mother's red hair in the sun, the scent of apricots. Ariadne bit her finger to bring herself back to the present, and her tears increased, but her pain diminished. It was cool in her apartment, but her body felt uncomfortably hot and prickling, her cheeks blistered with tears. Several draughts of steadying breaths did little to calm the torrent of memories crashing against her subconscious. Her mother, laughing, making a cake for her birthday, braiding her hair for Sunday Church, whimpering on the floor while her father roared.

What could she do? He _loved_ her reaction – she remembered seeing the deep satisfaction in his blue eyes as she left, walking too quickly to be deemed calm and collected. He loved taking her apart. Because he didn't have anything else to do, did he? Just to pick at her, a cat tearing little incisions into its prey before eating it. He drank her pain, swallowed it, and it nourished him more than a meal or a medication. She tore off her jacket, throwing it onto the back of a chair and dimly hearing it slide off in a crumpled heap of fabric. Her refrigerator door was almost torn off its hinges, and she snatched at the boxes of old takeout, dumping all of them unceremoniously into a bowl. Without bothering to heat it up, she jabbed her hand into the silverware drawer and withdrew a fork.

Sitting on the couch, she wolfed down the cold takeout, the Chinese noodles blending with the Mexican pork in a rather odd combination. Her taste buds barely recognized the contrast in flavors, the clashing of textures, but the food in her belly soothed the fuzziness in her head, at least for a moment. Eating helped, if only for a moment. She would take out her quart of cookie-dough-ice-cream later, maybe get a spoon and eat the whole thing. The sweetness would cloy her tongue and freeze her insides, stopping the torrent of memories, and she kept eating the cold noodles, faster this time. When the big bowl had nothing but an oily layer around the inside, she sat on the couch, quivering a little.

Why was she doing this? Torturing herself? She had dealt with the painful memories of her mother's death and her father's dementia before, or so she thought – she had even seen a therapist about the nightmares. But several careful sentences from Doctor Lecter unraveled the entire packaging she had created for herself. She felt the hastily eaten food sit, cold and hard as a toad in a swamp, in her belly, and she groaned a little in the dim light of the apartment. She should write – write quickly, before she forgot the vivid details of the encounter, but her fingers stayed on her knees, greasy and cold.

She needed to write the book. Expose them, tell the world how wonderfully criminals masqueraded as intellectuals. She already had a publisher and an editor itching to get their fingers on it – they said it would be the book of the decade, a look into the madness behind the eyes of serial killers. And the royalties would come rolling in; they wove elaborate tales of book tours, speeches, public appearances, the celebrity status of a young girl. Everything she couldn't have as a teen, when she had been so needy for attention.

Slowly, she went to the living room and booted up her clunky old desktop, a chunky gray computer which only worked in cool weather and sputtered out in humid temperatures. She waited, absolutely still, a fox sensing a trap, while the computer started, and then clicked open a Word Processor. The black line of the waiting type blinked at her, a slender stab of darkness against the crisp whiteness of her computer screen. With the movements of a person about to jump off a high dive, she began to type.

_Doctor Hannibal Lecter (better known to the press as Hannibal the Cannibal) was best known for eating his victims. However, he would be titled a cannibal even if he hadn't partaken of human flesh – for he feasts on the fears and memories of people, slaking his greedy desire for pain and suffering. Everything is a game to him, for the world holds no amusement save the unwrapping of people's minds. He is quickly bored once people present no question to him – he believes himself superior in every way. Is he a monster? _

She stared at the last line. Typed three letters.

_yes_

* * *

><p><em>Thank you for taking the time to read this chapter. I hope Hannibal isn't too OOC again – I'm making this his first capture, so he still has an interest in other people's minds. I hope you continue reading this, please tell me what you think. <em>

**Twisted Love Stories:** Whew! I'm glad you don't think Hannibal is OOC. I really think he is – actually, I think he's OOC in every fiction I read. I don't believe it's possible to capture the intricacies of his mind on paper. At any rate, I'm concerned with making Ariadne too Mary Sue. I'm trying to make her as human as possible – every person has bad memories, no matter how nice their upbringing. But I don't think I'm translating this very well. Oh well. Any guesses as how Hannibal and Ariadne have a linked past?

_All Reviewers Shall Be Publically Thanked. Please Give Your Honest Opinion. I Value Your Feedback Greatly._


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